


Scream

by scorchedtitan



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Body Horror, Empurata, Functionist!AU, Gen, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 11:28:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8665909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorchedtitan/pseuds/scorchedtitan
Summary: Swerve wanted to die. But he also wanted to scream. And yet, he could do neither. (Commission for elluka on Tumblr)





	

            Swerve wanted to die.

            To be fair, he always wanted to die. Living under the regime he did, many people did, as they expected it was inevitable. He could still remember when they recalled the explosives class. He’d been working right next to Tripwire, supplying the bomb engineer with some acid to melt through a mech’s cranial casing, a new tool for the latest in the Functionaries’ obsolescence chips, when Tripwire’s own had gone off with a loud “POK”. Swerve was fairly certain he still had some of his fellow scientist’s audio receptor lodged in his shoulder, thick and sharp and enough to play up at inconvenient moments.

            It was then that he started looking for a way out. He knew what the Council would have done to him if they found out, but hey, he was already an outcast. No one liked a mech who talked too much. Too many eyes about, too many cynics, too many people expecting him to say the wrong thing at the wrong moment and get them both sent to the Institute, get them both rebuilt the way he was now.

            But Swerve remembered. He remembered watching Blurr on viewscreens in the glory days, that final race where the speedster beat out Drag Strip for the cup. He remembered reading Rung’s writings on mental health despite himself. He remembered listening to the poetry of the late, great, constructed cold Sky-Byte, whose works became music and whose music became art. For all the detriments Swerve found to himself, he had one key thing: a fantastic memory.

            So he wrote all of it down. Race times for Blurr, the dates of all his victories and his rare defeats. News articles he recalled from when Drag Strip was caught using weapons, and the ensuing scandal that resulted in his own empurata. He wrote down all he could about the Useless One’s philosophies, about how each personality type was classified. He jotted down Sky-Byte’s music, songs like “Always Remind Us” and “Cobalt Ocean”, with every note and every syllable carefully recorded.

            Of course, these had nowhere to go but himself. But in turn, they inspired him. He started handing out a few drinks to colleagues, things he’d concocted in his spare time, but had filed away when the Senate died and all hopes of reclassification died with them. A couple, like Ratchet and Hoist, drank with him, though most, like Bulkhead, brushed him off. Still, it was good. He felt good.

            And then Pharma found out. In particular, the Pharma who was the head of Iacon’s greatest engineering and medical facility. “Pharma the Whistleblower”, they called him, for he was as high as he was not due to alt-mode, but due to sheer dedication to the Functionist cause. He ordered a sweep of Swerve’s corridors and workspace. Said sweep revealed not only the writings, but several other incriminating things that Swerve wasn’t even aware were criminal. The metallurgist, who had never even shared what he thought with anyone, whose usual noise was loud bluster and jokes, was declared a radical.

            So, he was lifted up quite easily in the arms of the likes of Demolishor and Blitzwing, and dragged to an operating table, quite conveniently in the same facility. He was strapped down, and screaming. He struggled against his restraints, but what was a minibot to do? The attending physician, Pharma himself, simply hummed over his agony as each screw was pulled out with the utmost force. Each plate covering his cerebral cortex was burnt away. Each finger was not detached, but pulled off. And he could feel it all.

Swerve only quieted when they removed his voicebox with a saw.

            No one looked at him when he passed them in the halls later. You weren’t supposed to look at the flatheads. Even more than before, he was ostracized.

            And as the red-and-white mech gathered his few remaining possessions, along with the state mandated communicube that he no longer wanted, his face said nothing.

            Swerve wanted to die. But he also wanted to scream. And yet, he could do neither.


End file.
